Embers
by NairobiWonders
Summary: Set right after the end of season two so spoilers. Chapter one is Sherlock POV as he tries to sort out his feelings. Chapter Two is Watson's reaction and POV. Chapter Three is a reconciliation of sorts. Crosses slightly into joanlock territory.
1. Chapter 1

Sporadic flares from the dying fire cast dusky light and long charcoal shadows across his face. The shadows crawled over him, slunk away from the darkened library and joined their brethren in the unlit house. Mesmerized by the embers, he sat and gave his pain and anger free rein. Sherlock brooded.

Sherlock went round and round with the thoughts and feelings that plagued him, attempted to draw out a logical solution but, as in previous bouts, he caved in to resentment and churlishness. The only solution to the problem was one he did not like.

Since last night, the night of Mycroft's "death," not one word had been exchanged between Watson and himself. Talk was futile. She had made her decision and so had he.

Watson was leaving; he could not sway her. The friendship he thought they shared meant nothing to her. She would not budge.

For Mycroft, though, she had been willing to drop everything, upend her life completely, even after the horror that his brother had put her through. Sherlock's eyes involuntarily squeezed shut as he relived the danger into which Watson was placed and the pain she suffered as a result. Panic and fear overwhelmed him again in a hot, dizzying wave at the thought of how close he had come to losing her forever. Forcing his eyes open, he fixed them once more on the embers and took slow breaths until composure was regained. How was she handling the trauma without breaking down? She would not accept help, would not talk to him, just swallowed it down and went on. Watson did not need him or his help, she made that painfully clear to him.

Self-loathing joined the fray. Taught at an early age that he was unwanted and uncared for by his own family, he learned to preemptively hate himself before others had a chance to hurt him. Sherlock sulked.

There was no doubt that she was sick of him, of his "pull." What a spurious excuse that was - she was stuck in his orbit. Hah! She just couldn't tell him the truth, she was far too kind for that. Joan was tired of him and he didn't blame her. He was disgusted with himself as well. Who would willingly choose to stay with him, emotionally stilted, rude, abrasive, uncaring, selfish. He knew his many faults all too well.

What a fool to think he had found his first true friend in Watson! To have wholeheartedly believed she cared about him as he was, as he cared for her... He should have learned the lesson when Moriarty carved it into him; now, he would carry Watson's deep wound next to the remnants of the shallow mark left upon him by Irene.

Indignation at the situation in which he found himself rose. Sherlock sat straighter in his chair. "I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul," he murmured to himself. Wallowing was not an option. The packet of heroin he placed in his suit pocket yesterday was a reminder of his innate strength. He was capable of success and sobriety without her and her nanny services. He would not give her the satisfaction of relapsing. Sherlock did not need Watson in any capacity. The assignment he set himself, to pay the debt he owed his brother, was clear before him.

The creaking open of the front door and it's soft shutting drew his attention back outward. He stiffened and set his jaw. This needed to be done; this needed to be ended.

Joan stood at the threshold of the library and said nothing. Sherlock turned his head towards her and spoke precisely and with little embellishment, "I've taken an assignment that will take me out of the country. I don't know how long I will be gone. I leave the day after tomorrow."

Each word he uttered stabbed at her. Disappointment, sadness, anger, all swelled within and fought to gain expression but with expert care, all were suppressed. She offered him a blank stare in return for the buffeting his words had given her. She would not allow him to see the pain he caused her. Joan nodded in acknowledgment of his statement, turned and made her way upstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

Slowly, Joan climbed the unlit stairs, maintaining control by focusing on the task at hand, retreating further into herself with each step she took. With one hand still on the balustrade, she paused. The darkened landing appeared before her. The tracings of faint blue light filtering in from the street made visible her bedroom's open door. She took a small breath, pushed down the lump that had lodged in her throat and walked towards the semi-sanctuary that was her room.

Joan crossed the threshold, closed the door, walked across to the bed and stood, stunned. Her eyes found the only light in the room, fixing themselves onto the red numbers of her alarm clock in an effort to keep grounded. The numbers quickly blurred as the tears of over three weeks worth of pain and trauma pushed their way through her carefully erected barriers. Joan batted her eyes quickly, refocused and prevented the tears escape. She would not cry.

She turned, sat on the bed and tried to make sense of it all. Joan shook her head in disbelief. On the way back to the brownstone this evening, she had decided to tell Sherlock she was staying. Too much turmoil and trauma had swirled around her as of late and, though she fully intended to move out, she thought it would be best to wait. Wait until things settled, her feelings, his feelings, until she had some time to process all that had happened. She knew how upset Sherlock had been with the events of the past few weeks as well. But now ... this. As of this moment she was homeless, unemployed and alone.

What was happening?

Joan felt the self-imposed numbness fade and the much repressed pain begin to seep into her soul. The arguments with Sherlock, the fear, the abduction, that poor man she couldn't save, the brutal deaths she witnessed, Mycroft's deception and his abrupt departure, and now Sherlock's proclamation that he was as good as gone himself. Her life had completely unravelled and she had nothing left to hold onto.

She felt herself drifting, a sense of absolute aloneness settled into her bones, a block of ice formed in her stomach. Why was he leaving her now, now when she needed him the most, needed the stability and sense of security only he could provide. Joan's body tensed and anger took over. Sherlock only cared for himself, only did what was of benefit for him and the rest of the world be damned. Selfish prick. This was just retaliation for her daring to upset his delicately balanced world.

For the past twenty four hours he had avoided her and if she crossed his path, his manner was dismissive, as if she no longer existed. Joan was used to his moods and at the core she knew he cared for her. But this treatment from him right now paralyzed her. Sherlock had pulled the rope and dropped a wall from the rafters. It crashed between them - tall, cold, impenetrable - it separated them completely.

Ironically, she was moving out of the brownstone because she felt she had gotten too close to Sherlock. Their lives were too wrapped up in each other's and she felt suffocated. The commitment between them had grown organically, slowly ensnaring her, and him, without cognizant consent. Consciously or not, Joan had always chosen relationships with no future, where she knew going in that the relationship could not last - Liam, Ty, especially Mycroft - on some level she knew they were all dead ends. Sherlock was not a dead end. She could not disengage him from her life, she didn't want to, but she could limit the closeness, maintain control... At least she thought she could. The tie she felt towards him was so strong it panicked her at times, made her want to run away as far as possible yet at the same time made her want to stand by his side. And that scared her as well. She needed space to think. That's all she had wanted, space to think. And now, it didn't matter. He was leaving and their lives would go off in different directions. Sherlock was ending their partnership.

It was too much for her to hold in any more. Her knees felt weak, she slid off the edge of the bed and lowered herself to the floor placing her back against the bed. Her knees bent in front of her, she placed her folded arms atop them and lowered her head onto them. A gust of cold early spring air from the open window billowed the curtains and startled her. She jumped and gasped. The adrenaline flowed and her heart raced. The tears that at first would not come, too used to being restrained, now poured. She wept, muffling the sobs with her hands, her body shaking with fear and frustration. No comfort existed.

Sherlock stood in the hall outside her room. Hearing her stifled crying, pinned him to the spot. His instinct was to leave, to run as far as he could from this mess of emotions, hers and his. But that was Watson on the other side of that door and she, for whatever reason, was distressed.


	3. Chapter 3

Conflicting urges left him paralyzed, unable to move until the sound of her muffled cry propelled him to the door. Sherlock stood for a moment with his hand on the doorknob summoning the courage, quelling the fear, steadying his heart before he opened the door.

The room was dark and cold. He spotted Watson before him, a small mass on the floor by her bed. With the little light there was in the room, he could not see her face clearly but he could hear her. Watson never cried. His face tensed and froze as he stood looking down at her not knowing what to do or how to help.

An embarrassed Joan looked up at him and drew a shuttered breath, wiped her face with both hands and pushed her hair back off her face. "I'm fine Sherlock... Please leave." Noticeably shivering, her weak and shaky voice betrayed her. She tried to throw on her calm, passive demeanor as she stood but it only made her shaking more noticeable.

With every ounce of his being, Sherlock wanted to leave, to convince himself she would be fine and extricate himself from her presence and her pain. Having come a step or two closer, he could now make out her face and the look on it crashed through his urge to run, landing with a splash in the pit of his stomach. Action was necessary.

He walked straight to the open window and shut it with a loud clang that made Joan jump. The room was freezing. He wasn't sure if her shivering was a by-product of the cold or of emotional turmoil, but the gusts of air that had been blowing through the open window more than likely had not helped. Sherlock now made his way to the bed and picked up her red cardigan from where it lay.

A still-quivering Watson watched him. He crossed to where she stood and stood before her. She put up her best brave front but Sherlock was having none of it. He reached around her and draped the sweater across her back. "Arms," he commanded and she complied.

The warmth of the sweater as she slipped her arms through the sleeves surprised her as did the intensity and single-mindedness of Sherlock still standing before her. He adjusted the sweater around her and proceeded to button it up, fixing the collar so it hugged her neck. She provided no resistance. He looked at her and her eyes were still full of sorrow. Try as she might to hide it, her body still shook with cold or pain.

He could no longer stand to watch her suffer. Instinctively, he suddenly grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her to him. His arms clenched tightly around her shoulders and back, holding her fast to him, his breathing fast and scared.

Joan was caught by surprise. Her arms were up in front of her, forearms to his chest. A split second of fear at the vehemence of his action was quickly followed by a glow, a feeling akin to coming home. The security of being held released the last bit of restraint she had been holding on to, her head bent forward and her forehead found his chest. She sobbed and he held her even tighter, absorbing her pain; pain he feared he had caused her. She sank further into him. The smell of him, mint and soap and wool, surrounded her. The comfort of having his support was overwhelming. And she cried without shame, something she had not allowed herself to do with any one else. And still he held on tight. His head rested on the side of her head, the fingers of one hand now enmeshed in her hair while the other hand at her back pressed her to him with such intensity he was afraid he might be hurting her.

Her arms which she had held up to herself in defense relaxed and came down finding their way beneath his jacket and around his waist. Timidly at first, she felt the cotton of his shirt and then his body beneath. Quickly gaining courage, she grasped and pulled and clung to him.

The sensation of her hands on him surprised him at first but the joy of her reaching for him in such a manner gave him strength and reassured him. He settled himself around her and they arranged their stance so that no space at all remained between them.

Her shivering was subsiding and he lessened his grip. Joan tightened her hold on him and sunk her face into his chest breathing him in, not wanting him to let go. Feeling her need to remain close to him caused a visceral reaction in Sherlock and he pressed his head into the crook of her neck. He was overwhelmed by his need for her; he felt the sting of tears welling in his eyes. Her arms came up around his neck and she held him as he found his place with her.

Joan and Sherlock stood as one again after too long a time apart, bodies silhouetted in the darkened room by the filtered light of the city, the only sound their now steady, synced breathing.

Sherlock pulled himself away just far enough to look into her eyes and reassure himself that she was alright. "I'm sorry," his whispered breath caressed her cheek as his hand cupped her face.

Staring into his eyes, Joan brought up her hand and discreetly wiped a tear from his cheek. His eyes closed slowly at her touch as his head leaned into her hand. She dragged her fingers across his stubbly cheek and whispered, "I'm sorry, too." Their foreheads touched, noses lightly rubbed, and they stood eyes closed, breathing each other in, trying to hold on to the moment as long as possible.

He pulled away first and tried to regain his equilibrium, his hands came to rest on her shoulders. "You should get some rest."

"You're still leaving?" Joan knew the answer.

He bent his head not wanting to hurt her again, "Yes." He took a deep breath. "I have a debt to repay ... Promises to keep." He ventured a quick look at her face.

Her head too was bent, unwilling to look at him, she nodded her understanding. "Stay safe." Her words were barely audible. She sensed him coming closer. His lips brushed hers asking for permission and then pulled back. Joan followed his lips and kissed them chastely. He hovered, then moved forward. Small tender kisses were exchanged, both frightened yet unwilling to stop. He pulled away but her lips once again followed, pressed and conquered his. The kiss ignited the passion that had long flowed just below the surface between them. It left them breathless as they came to their senses.

Sherlock took a step back knowing he had to or risk ruining their friendship. Joan took a deep breath and brought herself under control. He reached for her hand and kissed her open palm. She closed her eyes to keep the tears from once more falling. He reluctantly let her hand go and quickly left her room.

Joan stood staring at the place he had just been. She would not see him again for quite a long time.

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A grey spring morning, greeted Joan. She knew Sherlock was gone. She had heard him through the night, stealthy though he tried to be, getting his things in order. On the kitchen table she found an envelope. Sherlock left her his power of attorney and a brief note with necessary account numbers, file locations and nothing else.

Sherlock left home a day earlier than necessary knowing that if he saw her face once more he would not be able to leave.


End file.
